the writings of a manboy with a spotted bed sheet

The Good

The superhero returned home, tired of all the goodness he had done. He turned on the TV and saw himself again. The first times it had been quite thrilling, but he’d lost all fervor now. It had become his duty, his job, not his passion. He’d saved the man from crashing onto the ground from the high building on fire, had come faster than the police to the unholy scene of the serial killer’s work, but he felt no pride. He’d lost the time to read his book, or date the woman he’d loved for so long. In fact, he could feel nothing at all now. He was empty. He’d lost all his joy and sorrow to morality, and was left with only that: the right things to do. And exhaustion. It never quite sufficed, what he did. And he had become exhausted of doing all that was never enough. He’d left all notion of merriment when he took goodness to the extreme. Of course, the happiness of the world had grown a bit because of his work, but his own life had become one of apathy. Of swollen eyes, because he’d only slept enough to go on. Of extreme care to attain efficiency in goodness. And what else could he do? Righteousness had only evil, or at best, indifference outside of it, and he’d decided a long time ago that those were the realm of the unethical fools who took no notice of all that suffered around them. Righteousness, though, was his realm. And he’d chosen never to set foot outside of it, even if it cost him his happiness.

[Appendix: Then he went on out of his house to save a toddler from being suffocated by a swallowed two billion dollar spy jelly fish built by the national intelligence service as their last hope to save the country from an atomic bomb invasion and laughed at the ludicrousness of the situation and became happy again.]